Barrow Fields My skin, my soul, my finest jewels

The outburst both startled the man and made him curious, his ears switching back against his head for a moment as if to show that he had not expected the girl to yell. He hadn't, of course, but there was nothing more he appreciated than a little spýtaeld. They were the kind of women that could stick up for themselves, as she did, though her yelling did little to turn the Nordic away. With her parents dead, there was no one left to care for the babe, something he assumed by the lack of guardian hanging around to ward him off.

The rumble of an empty stomach contradicted the words, the lie, that fell from her tongue, But perhaps it was not a lie, perhaps it was some bent and broken form of the truth; she was here, she was alive, thriving, and even running on empty she still had enough hjartahlýja when confronted with a stranger. Had she been closer to a pack, Stjornuati might be inclined to take her there, but for now, he would do what he could to see to the child. As much as she'd allow him, anyway.

You hunger? Rabbit, bird, fish? What you hunger for? This one will hunt.